


The Darkest Angel

by CastielTheWingedAssbutt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielTheWingedAssbutt/pseuds/CastielTheWingedAssbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winged warrior Castiel has been alive for centuries, and yet he's never known desire-until he meets Dean. Spawned from the bloodline of his enemy. the roguish Harpy is determined to lead the untouched Castiel into temptation. He will try to evade Dean's attempts, but even the most iron-willed demon assassin can resist for only so long... </p><p>/The Darkest Angel/ manipulation</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I DO NOT OWN SUPERNATURAL, THE DARKEST ANGEL, OR THE CHARACTERS ASSOCIATED WITH EITHER.
> 
> Okay. Now that that's out of the way... So I bought this book called After Dark. Its a collection of two stories by Gena Showalter and Kait Ballenger. BUY IT.
> 
> Now, this story is not mine. I do not call it mine. Nor do I make money off of it.
> 
> tbh, I tweaked here and there, changing the names to make it more 'destiel' and SPN!verse, but its pretty much the same story.
> 
> Aaaaand roll film!

From high in the heavens, Castiel spotted his prey. At last. Finally, I will end this. His jaw clenched and his skin pulled tight. With tension. With relief. Determined, he jumped from the cloud he stood upon, falling quickly… Wind whipping from his hair…

When he neared the ground, he allowed his wings, long and feathered and golden, to unfold from his back and catch in the current, slowing his progress.

He was a soldier for Michael, the leader of the Sent Ones—winged warriors, like angels, but… not. Sent Ones were far more, and Castiel was more than most. He was one of the Elite Seven. With as many millennia as he'd lived, he'd come to learn that each of the Elite Seven had one temptation. One potential down-fall. Like Eve with her apple. When they found this… thing, this abomination, they happily destroyed it before it could destroy them.

Castiel had finally found his.

Dean Winchester.

He was the son of a Harpy and a phoenix shape-shifter. He was a thief, a liar, and a killer who found joy in the vilest of tasks. Worse, the blood of demons—Castiel's greatest enemy—flowed through Dean's veins.

Which meant Dean was his enemy.

Castiel lived to destroy his enemies.

However, he could only act against them when given permission from Michael, who had to gain permission from Him—the absolute, final authority in the heavens. He loved humans and wanted them protected. Wanted them trained to fight evil, not destroyed by it. But Dean wasn't exactly human, was he?

Dean was more like Castiel, and he had cursed the warrior with a taste for what the mortals referred to as "desire."

Something had to be done.

Castiel had seen him for the first time several weeks ago, short dirty blond hair cropped close to his scalp and spiked up in all directions, freckles speckled over his bronzed skin, golden-green hazel eyes bright and plush rose petal pink lips. Watching him, unable to turn away a single question had drifted through the Sent One's mind:

Was his shimmering skin as taut as appeared?

Forget desire. Castiel had never wondered such a thing about anyone before. He'd never cared. But the question was becoming an obsession, discovering the truth a need. And it had to end. Now. This day.

He landed just in front of the thief, but the other couldn't see him. No one could. He existed on another plane, invisible to mortal and immortal alike. He could scream, and would not be heard. He could walk through someone, and not be felt. For that matter, he could not be smelt or sensed in any way.

Until it was too late.

He could have formed a fiery sword from air and cleaved the blond's head from his body, but he didn't. As he'd already realized and accepted, he could not kill the sinful man. Yet. But he could not allow him to roam unfettered, tempting him, a plague to his good sense, either. Which meant he would have to settle for the obvious course of action; imprisoning Dean in his home in the sky.

That didn't have to be a terrible ordeal for the warrior, however. He could use their time together to show Dean the error of his ways and teach him the right way to live. And the right way, of course, was Castiel's way. What's more, if the harpy did not conform, if he did finally commit that unpardonable sin, he would be at last to rid himself of his wrong influence.

Do it. Take him.

He reached out. But just before he could wrap his arms around the demon-spawn and fly him away, he realized they were no longer alone. He scowled, his arms falling to his sides. He did not want a witness to his deeds.

"Best day ever," Dean shouted skyward, splaying his arms and spinning 'round. Two champagne bottles were clutched in his hands and those bottles flew from his grip, slamming into the icy mountains of Alaska surrounding them. He stopped, swayed, and laughed breathlessly. "Whoops."

Castiel's scowl deepened. A perfect opportunity lost, he realized. Clearly, the man was intoxicated. He wouldn't have fought him. Would have assumed Castiel was a hallucination or that they were playing a game. After watching the wretched man these past few weeks, he knew how much Dean liked to play games.

"Jerk," his brother, the intruder, grumbled. Though they were close in age, Sam and Dean looked nothing alike. Sam had longer chocolate hair that brushed against his shoulders. He was slightly taller than Dean, his features more youthful. The only thing, truly, you could link them by was the same golden-green hazel eyes they shared. It must have been a distinguishing family trait, Castiel mused. He had never seen eyes with such piercing intensity among harpies. "I had to stalk a collector for days—days!—to steal that. Seriously. You just busted a fine bottle of aged dead man's blood." Sam pulled the most menacing bitch-face No. 72 he could muster while trying in vain to smother a smile.

"I'll make it up to you." Dean smirked suggestively while invading his brother's personal space, mist wafting from his mouth as the condensation from his speech froze in the air.

Sam snorted and looked away, "No, thank you. I've seen where that thing's been… mostly. And I don't want to be the one to catch something from you," the younger brother looked thoughtfully into space for a moment, then turned his piercing stare back to the other, "But I can definitely go for some fresh virgin's blood."

Castiel tried to pay attention to the conversation, he really did. But being this close to Dean was, as always, ruining his concentration. Only his skin was similar to his brother's, reflecting all the colors of a newly sprung rainbow. So why didn't he wonder if Sam's skin was as firm as it appeared?

Because he's not your temptation. You know this.

There, atop a peak of Devil's Thumb, he watched as Dean set himself down unceremoniously on his bottom in the snow. Frigid mist continued to waft around him, making him look as if he were some part of a dream. Or a Sent One's nightmare.

"But you know," Sam added, "finding a virgin in town doesn't help me now. I'm only partially buzzed and was hoping to be totally and completely smashed by the time the sun set."

"You should be thanking me then. You got smashed last night. And the night before. And the night before that."

Sam shrugged, "So?"

"So your life is in a rut," Dean said as if the most obvious thing in the world, "You steal liquor, climb a mountain while drinking and dive off when drunk."

"Well, then yours is in a rut, too, since you've been with me each of those nights," the younger man pointed out smugly. Castiel offhandedly wondered if Sam had ever thought of becoming a lawyer. Sam's smirk fell and he frowned, "Still. Maybe you're right. Maybe we need a change." He gazed around the majestic summit. "So what new and exciting thing do you want to do now?"

"Complain. Can you believe Jo is getting married?" Dean asked. "And to Adam, keeper of the demon of Forgetfulness, of all people. Or demons. Whatever."

Jo. Josephine Harvelle. The closest thing they have to a little sister. Marrying their half-brother.

"I know. It's weird." A still-frowning Sam eased down beside the older harpy who was drawing patterns in the snow with his bare hands. "Would you rather play bride's maid or be hit by a bus?" he continued, a playful glint in his eye.

"The bus. No question. That, I'd recover from."

"Agreed."

Dean did not like weddings? Odd. Most humans craved the emotional bonding. But then again Dean wasn't a human. Still. No need for the bus, Castiel wanted to tell him. You will not be attending Josephine's wedding.

"So which of us do you think she'll make play maid of honor, do you think?" Sam asked.

"Not it," Dean replied, just as Sam opened his mouth to say the same.

"Jerk!"

"Bitch," Dean shot back without malice, in fact he chuckled with genuine amusement. "Your duties shouldn't be too bad. Jo's the nicest of the Winchester fam, after all."

"Nice when she's not protecting Adam, that is." Sam shuddered, "I still don't think she got over the whole 'locking Adam in hell' thing."

"I swear, threaten that man with a little bodily harm, and she's ready to claw your eyes out." Dean scoffed, looking over the landscape.

Sam looked at Dean and asked earnestly, "Think we'll ever fall in love like that?"

A look of sadness washed over Dean's chiseled features before his face returned to impassiveness.

Why sadness? Did he want to fall in love? Or was he thinking of someone in particular he yearned for? Castiel had not yet witnessed him interact with somebody as though he desired them.

Dean waved a hand dismissively through the air. "We've been alive for centuries without falling. Clearly, it's just not meant to be. But I, for one, am glad about that. Feelings become a liability when you try and make them permanent."

Sam glanced at Dean. Perhaps Dean was not usually so open about his thoughts and feelings. A smirk tugged at the corner of Castiel's lips. This weakness may have tactical value.

"Yeah," was the delayed reply, "But a fun liability."

Dean hummed in agreement, "True. And I haven't had fun in a long time."

Sam snorted, "Dean, your dry spell is somebody's monsoon season."

Dean smirked but didn't deny it, "What can I say? The ladies love me."

Castiel frowned. Ladies. So, Castiel's one interest—no, weakness, was not attracted to what he was. This strengthened the warrior's resolve even further to eradicate this single flaw.

Sam chuckled and said with seriousness, "But I haven't been having fun either. Except with myself. But I don't think that counts."

"It does the way I do it."

The older harpy's comment and suggestive eyebrow waggle earned him a face full of new fallen snow.

"Gross! I did not need to hear that!" Sam raised his voice in good nature.

They shared another laugh.

Fun. Sex, Castiel realized, now having no trouble keeping up with their conversation. They were discussing sex. Something he'd never tried. Not even with him-self. Being utterly indifferent to sexual orientation, he'd never wanted to try it. Still didn't. Not even with Dean and his (strong?) muscles.

As long as he'd been alive—a span of time far greater than their few hundred years—he'd seen many humans caught up in the act. Not of his own choosing, of course. But it looked… messy. As un-fun as something could be. Yet humans betrayed their friends and family to do it. They even willingly, happily have up hard-earned money in exchange for it. When not taking part themselves, they become obsessed with it, watching others do it on televisions or computer screens.

We should have nailed one of the Lady-demons when we were in Buda." Dean said thoughtfully. "Lisa is hawt."

He could have only been referring to one of the Demons of the Underworld. Immortal warriors possessed by the demons once locked inside Pandora's Box. As Castiel had observed them throughout the centuries, ensuring they followed heavenly laws, he knew that Lisa was a Succubus, host to Promiscuity, forced to bed a new person every day or weaken and die.

"Lisa is hot, yes, but I like Ruby."

Dean snorted and Sam shot him a glare with little fire behind it.

"What? You got somebody better?" he asked, and Dean pursed his plush lips in thought. Suddenly, a wicked smirk caught his features.

"Meg."

Sam's eyebrows raised tremendously and he whistled low. "Meg." He repeated.

Ah, yes. Meg, the host of the demon of secrets. So. Dean liked her, did he? Castiel pictured the demon. Short where Castiel was tall. Curvy where Castiel was chiseled. Dark where Castiel was light. He was actually relieved (so he told himself) to know the Harpy preferred a different type of person to himself.

That wouldn't change the roguish man's fate, but it did lessen Castiel's burden. He hadn't been sure what he would have done if Dean had asked the warrior to touch him. That he wouldn't was most definitely a relief.

"What about Azazel?" Sam asked. "All those tattoos…" A moan slipped from him as he shivered. "I could trace every single one of them with my tongue."

Dean shrugged at his brother who seemed to be having a good fantasy as he shuddered in the snow. Men did not seem to be the older harpy's thing.

Azazel, host of Wrath. One of only two Lords with wings, Azazel's were black and gossamer. He had tattoos all over his body and looked every inch the demon he was. What's more, he had recently broken a spiritual covenant. Therefore, Azazel would be dead before the upcoming nuptials.

Castiel's charge, Samandriel, had been ordered to slay the warrior. So far he had resisted the decree. The boy was too softhearted for his own good. Eventually, he would be kicked to earth, immortal no longer, and that was not a fate Castiel would allow.

Of all the Sent Ones he'd trained, Samandriel was by far his favorite. As gentle as he was, nobody could help but to want to make him happy. He was trustworthy, loyal and all that was pure; he was the type of companion who should have tempted Castiel. A companion he might have been able to accept in a romantic way. Roguish Dean… no. Never.

"However will I choose between my favorite temptations, Dean?" Another sigh returned Castiel's focus to the Harpies.

Dean rolled his eyes, "Just sample them all. Not like you haven't enjoyed an orgy before."

Sam laughed, though the amusement didn't quite reach his voice. Like Dean, there was a ghost of sadness over his voice and expression. "True."

Castiel's mouth curled in mild distaste. Multiple different partners in one day. Or all at one time. Had Dean done that too? Probably.

"What about you?" the younger harpy asked. "You gonna bang Meg at the wedding?"

There was a long, heavy pause. Then Dean shrugged again, "Maybe. Probably."

It crossed Castiel's mind that he should leave and return when the blond haired man was alone. The more he learned about him, the less he liked him. Soon he would simply snatch up the tainted man, no matter who watched, revealing his presence, his intentions, just to save this world from his dark influence.

He flapped his immense wings once, twice, lifting into the air.

"You know what I want more than anything else in the world?" he asked, rolling to his side and facing his brother. Facing Castiel directly, as well. His sharp features softening in a moment of weakness. His vibrant golden-green irises luminous. Beams of sunset seemed to soak into that glorious skin and Castiel found himself pausing, drifting back down until his feet rested atop the virgin snow.

Sam stretched out beside his brother.

"To star in one of those TV shows where they're hunting supernatural baddies and doing the whole 'family business' thing?"

Dean worried his bottom lip with a canine for a moment before replying with, "Well, yeah, but that's not what I meant."

"Then I'm stumped."

"Well…" Dean's tooth, yet again, found his bottom lip and bit down against it, as if trying to subconsciously keep himself from spilling his secret. He opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Scowled. "I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone."

Sam pretended to twist a key (that goes to a lock) over his lips.

"I'm serious, Sammy. Tell anyone and I'll deny it then hunt you down and chop off your head."

Would he truly? Castiel wondered. Again, probably. He could not imagine hurting his Samandriel, whom he loved like a brother. Maybe because he was not one of the Elite Seven, but was a joy-bringer, the weakest (and youngest) of the Sent Ones.

There were four factions in the skies. The Elite Seven, the warriors and the joy-bringers. Their statuses was both reflected in their duty and the color of their wings. Each of the Seven possessed golden wings, like his own. Warriors possessed white wings merely threaded with gold, and the joy-bringers' white wings bore no gold at all.

Samandriel had been a joy-bringer all the centuries of his existence. Something he was quite happy with. That was why everyone, including Samandriel, had experienced such shock when golden down had begun to grow in his feathers.

Not Castiel, however. He'd petitioned the Heavenly High Council, and they'd agreed. It needed to be done. He was too fascinated by the demon-possessed warrior Azazel. Too… infatuated. Ridding him of such an attraction was imperative. As he well knew.

His hand clenched into a fist. He blamed himself for Samandriel's circumstances. He had sent the fledgling to watch the demons, the Lords. To study them. He should have gone himself, but he'd hoped to avoid Dean.

"Well, don't just lie there. Tell me what you want to do more than anything else in the world," Sam exclaimed.

Dean uttered another sigh, "I want to sleep with somebody."

Castiel's and Sam's brows both furrowed in confusion.

"Uh, hello. Wasn't that what we were just discussing?"

"No, bitch." Dean rolled his eyes and his voice raised with an irritated undertone. "I mean, I want to sleep. As in, conk out. As in, snores so loud they contemplate kicking me out—before realizing they can't live without me."

A moment passed in silence as Sam absorbed the announcement.

"What! That's forbidden. Stupid, Dean! Dangerous!" Sam's voice bordered on hysteria. "You know it's a rule, right?"

Harpies lived by two rules, Castiel knew. They could only eat what they stole or earned, and they could not sleep in the presence of another. The first was because of a curse on all Harpy-kind, and the second because Harpies were suspicious and untrusting by nature.

Castiel's head tilted and he squinted as he found himself imagining holding Dean in his arms as he drifted into slumber. That tickle of short hair against his cheek. Whether his speckled cheeks taste different than his normal skin. His warmth seeping into the warrior's body. His intoxicating scent of leather, soap, sweat, and the musk of pure Dean permeating the air and sinking into Castiel's bones. Their legs would intertwine.

He could never allow it, of course, but it didn't diminish the power of the vision. To hold him, protect him, comfort him would be… nice.

Would his skin taste as good as he smelled?

His teeth ground together in defiance. There was another ridiculous question. I do not care. It does not matter.

"Forget I said anything." Dean grumbled, defenses up now as he flopped onto his back, staring at the twinkling twilight.

"I can't," Sam bitched, "Your words are singed into my ears. Do you know what happened to our ancestors when they were stupid enough to fall asl—"

"Yea, okay. Fine, Sammy." Dean pushed to his feet. The ragged faux fur coat he wore was jet black, and a vivid contrast to the white ice around him. His combat boots matched his coat in color. He wore skin-tight pants, also black. He looked wicked and handsome.

Would his skin be as soft as it appeared?

Before he realized what he was doing, he was standing in front of the charming viper, reaching out, fingers tingling. What are you doing? Stop! He froze. Backed several steps away.

Sweet heaven. How close he'd come to giving in to temptation of Dean Winchester.

He could not wait any longer. Could not wait until he was alone. He had to act now. His reaction to the harpy was growing stronger. Any more, and he would touch him. And if he liked toughing the bronze skin, he might want to do more. That was how temptation worked. You gave in to one thing, then yearned for another. And another. Soon, you were lost.

"Enough heavy talk. Let's get back to our boring routine and jump," Dean said, stalking to the edge of the peak. "You know the rules, harpy who breaks the least amount of bones wins. If you die, you lose. For like, ever." He gazed down.

So did Castiel. There were crests and dips along the way, ice boulders with sharp, deadly ridges and thousands of feet of air. Such a jump would have killed a mortal, no question. The man merely joked about the possibility, as if it were of no consequence. Did he really think himself invulnerable?

Sam lumbered to his feet and swayed from the liquor still pouring through his veins. "Fine, but don't think this is the last of our conversation about sleeping habits and certain stupid older brothers who—"

Dean dove.

Castiel expected the action, but he was still surprised by it. He followed the reckless man down. Said man spread his arms, closed his eyes, grinning foolishly. That grin… affected him. Dean clearly reveled in the freedom of soaring. Something Castiel did often, as well. But the other would not have the end he desired.

Seconds before he slammed into a boulder, Castiel allowed himself to materialize. He grabbed Dean, his arms catching under the other's, wings unfolding, slowing them. Skinny-jean clad legs slapped against his own, jarring him, but he didn't release his hold.

A gasp escaped plush rose-petal lips, and his eyelids popped open. When their eyes locked, golden-green clashing with cobalt blue, that gasp became a growl.

Most would have asked who he was or demanded he go away. Not Dean.

"Big mistake Stranger Danger," he snapped. "One you'll pay for."

As many battles he'd fought over the years and as many opponents as he'd slain, he didn't have to see to know Dean had just unsheathed a blade from a hidden slit in his coat. And judging by the smug smile that appeared, the deranged man clearly thought he could stab the warrior. As if he wasn't faster. Stronger. Better. The last thought caused his chest to ache, but he wasn't sure why.

"It is you who have made the mistake, Harpy. But do not worry. I have every intention of rectifying that." Castiel's gravelly voice rumbled in his chest. Before Dean could ensure that his weapon met its intended target, the winged man whisked him away to another plane, into his home—where he would stay. Forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT OWN SUPERNATURAL, THE DARKEST ANGEL, OR THE CHARACTERS ASSOCIATED WITH EITHER.
> 
> I took most of last night and today typing up this chapter for y'all.
> 
> I still don't have a beta, so there might be some mistakes.
> 
> I appreciate your patience.
> 
> Let's get on with the story, shall we?
> 
> Roll film!

Dean Winchester gaped at his new surroundings. One moment he'd been tumbling toward an icy valley, intent on escaping his bitchy brother's line of questioning, as well as winning their break-the-least-amount-of-bones game, and the next he'd been in the arms of a gorgeous brunette. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Dean had tried to stab him, and his captor blocked the advance. Freaking blocked it. No one should be able to block a Harpy's deathblow.

Now he was standing inside a cloud-slash-palace. A palace that was bigger than any home he'd ever seen. A palace that was warm and sweetly scented, with an almost tangible sense of peace wafting through the air.

The walls were wisps of white and smoke, and as he watched murals formed, seemingly alive, winged creatures, both angelic and demonic, soaring through a morning sky. They reminded him of Pamela's paintings. Pamela—the All-Seeing Eye who could glimpse into both heaven and hell. The floors, though comprised of that same ethereal substance, allowing a view of the land and people below, were somehow solid.

Angelic. Cloud. The lowest level or heaven? Dread flooded Dean's entire body, resonating through his core as he spun to face the male who had snatched him from earth. "Angelic" described him perfectly. From the top of his dark head to the strength of that leanly muscled, radiating body, to the golden wings stretching from his back. Even the white robe that fell to his ankles and the sandals that wrapped around his feet gave him a saintly aura.

Was he an angel, then? Or a Sent One? Dean's heart skipped a beat. He wasn't human, that was for sure. No human male could ever hope to compare to such blinding perfection. But hello baby, those eyes… they were dark and hard and almost, well, empty.

His eyes don't matter. Angels and Sent Ones were demon assassins, and he was as close to a demon as a guy could get. After all, his ancestors hailed from the depths of hell. Long ago, fallen angels had mated with humans, and children born from that union had later mated with other humans, and his race was one of the results.

Unsure of what to do, Dean strode around his brunette; he remained in place, even when the Harpy was at his back, as if he had nothing to fear from the spitfire demon spawn. Maybe he didn't. Obviously he had powers. One, he had blocked Dean's strike—he just couldn't get over that fact—and two, he'd somehow removed his coat and all his weapons without laying a finger on him.

"Are you an angel?" Dean asked when he was once again in front of the other.

"No. I am a Sent One."

Poor guy, he thought with a shudder. Clearly he had no idea the crappy hand he had been dealt. Dean figured if he had to choose between being a Sent One and a dog, he'd choose the dog. They, at least, were respectable.

He'd never been this close to a Sent One before. Seen one, yes. Or rather, seen what he thought was a winged warrior of the skies but had later learned was a demon in disguise. Either way, he hadn't liked the guy, Jo's blood father. He'd considered himself a god and everyone else beneath him.

"Did you bring me here to kill me?" Dean asked. Not that the warrior would have any luck slaying him. He would find that Dean was definitely not an easy target. Many immortals had tried to finish him off over the years, but none of them had succeeded. Obviously.

The warrior sighed, cool peppermint fresh breath trekked over Dean's cheeks. He did accidently-on-purpose closed some distance between him and the other man; he smelled of the icecaps the rouge so loved. Fresh and crisp with just a hint of earthy spice.

When the winged soldier realized that only a whisper separated them, his lips, too desirable to be a man's but somehow perfect for his face comprised of a narrow chin and high cheek bones, pressed into a mulish line. Though Dean didn't see him move, Christ, Dean hadn't even blinked, but the man was a few paces back from where he had been standing moments before. Huh. Interesting. Had the Sent One increased the distance on purpose?

Curious, Dean stepped toward him.

The other backed away.

He had. Why? Was he scared of Dean? Did he smell bad?

Just to be contrary, as he was often, he stepped toward him again. Again, the man stepped away. So, the big bad Sent One didn't want to be within striking distance. Dean almost grinned.

"Well," he prompted. "Did you?"

"No, I did not bring you here to kill you," his speech rumbled in his chest. It was deep, gravelly, and excited something raw and animalistic within Dean. The man's voice a sin all its own. And yet, there was a layer of absolute truth to it, and Dean suspected he would have believed anything he said. As if whatever he said was simply fated, meant to be. Unchangeable. Unchallengeable.

"I want you to emulate my life. I want you to learn from me."

"Why?" What would his abductor do if he touched him? The tiny gossamer wings of Dean's back shuddered at the thought. His T-shirt was designed especially for his kind, the material loose to keep from pinning those wings as he jolted into break-neck speed. "Wait, don't answer. Let's make out first." A lie, but the stiff didn't need to know that.

"Dean," the rumbling voice warned, his patience clearly waning. "This is not a game. Do not make me bind you to my bed."

A devilish glint flashed in Dean's eyes.

"Ohh, now that I like. Sounds kinky." The young Harpy circled the other man, crowding in on him and not allowing him escape. He touched at his own leisure, running his fingertips over the other's cheek, his neck. "You're as soft as a baby," he cooed.

The man sucked in a breath, stiffened. "Dean."

"But better equipped."

"Dean!"

He patted the enraged man's butt, "Yes?"

"You will cease that immediately!"

"Make me." Dean laughed, the amused, carefree sound echoing between them.

Scowling, the man reached out and latched on to the other's upper arm. There wasn't time to evade him; shockingly, the blue-eyed man was faster than Dean. He jerked the black-clad man in front of him, eyes locking in a battle, staring each other down.

"There will be no touching. Do you understand?"

"Do you?" Dean shot back, an amused smirk threatening to slip. His gaze flicked to the hand gripping his arm. "At the moment, you're the one touching me."

He allows a cursory glance of his hand still clutching Dean's bicep, seemingly fascinated where they were connected.

He licked his lips, and tightened his grip just the way Dean liked. Then he released the limb as if it were on fire and once again increased the distance between them

"Do you understand?" He echoed his earlier demand, his tone sharp and flat.

What was his problem? He should be begging to touch Dean. He was a desirable Harpy, thank you very much. His body was a work of art and his face total perfection. But for the ruffled man's benefit, he said, "Yeah, I understand. Doesn't mean I'll obey, though." His skin tingled, craving the return of the other's. Bad Dean. Bad, bad Dean. He's a stupid warrior, more brawn than brains, and therefore not an appropriate plaything. Wait. Surely that thought hadn't come from Dean. He loved men and woman alike that didn't have a scrap of brain, right? Wait. Where did 'men' come from? This Sent One had Dean going backwards and upside down. He doesn't do men.

A moment passed as the man's calculating stare scrutinized the Harpy closely and he absorbed Dean's words.

"Are you not frightened of me?" His wings shuffled and folded against his back, arcing over his shoulders.

"No," Dean snorted, raising a brow and doing his best to appear unaffected. "Should I be?"

"Yes."

Well, then, this man would have to somehow grow the fiery claws of Dean's father's people. That was the only thing that scared him. Having been scratched as a child, having felt the acid-burn of fire spread through his entire body, having spent days writhing in agonizing, seemingly endless pain, he would do anything to avoid such an experience again.

"Well, I'm still not. And now you're starting to bore me." He anchored his hands on his hips, glaring at the impassive man. "I asked you a question but you never answered it. Why do you want be to be like you? So much so, that you brought me into the skies?"

A muscle ticked below one of his eyes. "Because I am good and you are evil.

Another snort of laughter escaped sinful rose petal lips. The other frowned and Dean's laughter increased until tears were running from his eyes. When he quieted, he said, "Good job. You slaved off the boredom."

The disapproving frown deepened. "I was not teasing you. I meant to keep you forever and train you to be respectable."

"Golly gee—is that right? Is that what you'd say? How adorable are you?" Dean reached up and mussed up the wild brunette hair. "Really? 'I mean to keep you here forever and train you.'" A whoop of laughter raised into the air as he used his best impersonation of him. There was no reason to fight about his eventual escape. Dean would prove him wrong just as soon as he decided to leave. Right now, he was too intrigued. With his surroundings, he assured himself, and not the Sent One.

The skies were not a place he'd ever thought to visit.

The brunette puffed out his chest and lifted his chin a notch, but his eyes remained expressionless.

"I am serious."

"I'm sure you are. But you'll find that you can't keep me anywhere I don't want to be. And me? Respectable? Funny!"

"We shall see."

The conviction in his voice might have unnerved Dean if he had been less confident in his own abilities. As a Harpy, he could lift a semi as if it were no more significant than a pebble, could move faster than the human eye could see and had no problem slaying an unwelcome host.

"Be honest," Dean smirked. "You saw me and wanted a piece, right?"

For the briefest of moments, horror blanketed his features. "No," he croaked out, then cleared his throat and said more smoothly, "No."

Jerk! Why such horror at the thought of being with him? Dean was the one who should be horrified. This man was clearly a do-gooder, more so than he'd realized. I am good and you are evil, he'd said. Ugh.

"So tell me again why you want to change me. Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't mess with perfection?"

That muscle started ticking below his eye again as he stared Dean down.

"You are a menace."

"Whatever, dude." Dean liked to steal—so what. He could kill anything without blinking—again, so what. It wasn't like he worked for the IRS or anything.

"Where's my brother, Sam? He's just as much a menace as I am. I'm sure you'd have a field day trying to change him. Why just me?"

"He's still in Alaska, wondering if you are buried inside an ice cave. And you are my only project at the moment."

Project?

Oh, that burned more than all of his other insults put together. But Dean did like the thought of poor Sammy searching high and low but finding no sight of him, almost like they were playing a game of hide-and-seek. Dean would totally, finally win.

"You appear… excited at the prospect of your brother worrying himself into a frenzy over you," he said, tilting his head and squinting. A motion Dean found endearing. No. Not endearing. He found it annoying. Yeah, that's right. "Why? Does his concern not disturb you?"

Yep. A certified do-gooder.

"It's not like I'll be here long." Dean peeked over the Sent One's shoulder; more of that wisping white greeted him. "Got anything to drink here?"

"No."

"Eat?"

"No."

"Wear?"

"No."

Slowly the corners of Dean's lips lifted. "I guess that means you like to go 'all natural.' Awesome."

Cobalt blue eyes widened a fraction then narrowed as a dusting of pink spread across the brunette's cheeks. "Enough. You are trying to bait me and I do not like it."

"Then you shouldn't have brought me here." Hey, he'd never really told him why he'd chosen Dean for his 'project,' he realized.

"Be honest you need my help with something?" After all, Dean, like many of his fellow Harpies, was a mercenary. Paid to find and retrieve. His motto: If it's unethical and illegal and you've got the cash, I'm your guy! "I mean, I know you didn't just bring me here to save the world from my naughty influence," he said with an eye waggle and a suggestive tone, stepping closer until he could feel the heat radiating off of the warrior.

His gaze remained fixed and his face still unreadable.

Dean sighed, he knew he was going to get nowhere with this dense man. At least on that train of thought. Oh, well. The blond could have convinced the other by annoying him until he caved, but he didn't want to put the work in.

"So what do you do for fun here?"

"I destroy demons."

Like you. He mentally finished the statement for the warrior, his harsh tone giving away his silent meaning. But the man had already said he had no intention of killing Dean, and the Harpy believed him—how could he not? That voice…

"So you don't want to hurt me, you don't want to touch me, but you want me to live here forever."

"Yes."

"I'd be an idiot to refuse such an offer," he said dryly, "we'll pretend to be hopelessly in love and spend the nights locked in each other's arms, kissing, touching, our bodies writhing in ecstasy while we—"

"Stop. Just stop."

And, drumroll please, that muscle began ticking under his eye again.

This time, there was no fighting his wicked grin. It grew wide and proud. That tic was a sign of anger, surely. But what would it take to make that anger actually seep into his irises? What would it take to break even a fraction of his iron control?

"Show me around." Dean smirked, "If I'm going to live here, I need to know where my walk-in closet is." During the tour he could accidentally-on-purpose brush against the stiff. Over and over again. "Do we have cable?"

"No. And I cannot give you a tour. I have duties."

Before Dean could his mouth to retort the other man continued with a pointed stare, "Important duties."

"Yeah, you do. My pleasure. That should be priority number one."

Teeth grinding together, the Sent One turned on his heel and strode away. "You will find it difficult to get into trouble here so I suggest you do not even try." His voice echoed behind him.

Please. The Harpy could get into trouble with nothing but a toothpick and a spoon.

"If you leave, I'll rearrange everything." Not that there was any furniture to be seen.

Silence.

"I'll get bored and take off."

"Try."

The one syllable answer angered Dean, resulting in his voice raising in a positively hostile tone.

"So you're seriously going to leave me? Just like that?" He snapped his fingers.

"Yes." Another response, although the warrior didn't stop walking.

"What about that bed you were going to chain me to? Where is it?"

Uh-oh, back to silence.

"You didn't even tell me your name," he called, grasping at straws. He was enraged. How could that prick abandon him like this? He should be hungry for more of Dean's attention, not brushing him off nonchalantly. "Well? I deserve to know the name of the man I'll be cursing."

Finally, the brunette stopped. Still, a long while passed in silence and Dean thought he meant to ignore the question. Again.

Before Dean could recall the question he said in that rumbly voice, "My name is Castiel," and stepped from the cloud, disappearing from view.


End file.
